


I Want to Stay Here

by AFishNamedSushi



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Actors, Alternate Universe, F/M, Lots of fucking feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFishNamedSushi/pseuds/AFishNamedSushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody would ever make that line between pretend and reality so blurred, nobody would cause the tears and emotions her body displayed when acting to be drawn from so deep within, and nobody would be both the best thing that ever happened to her and ruin her life at the same time. </p>
<p>The first time Darcy Lewis kisses Loki Odinson, she’s twenty two years old.</p>
<p>She’s never <em>really</em> kissed him at all.</p>
<p>AU: A story of two actors and the roles they share with one another over the course of their careers. Do things that happen for pretend really happen at all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - First Kisses and Pastries

The first time Darcy Lewis kissed a boy she was seven years old.

It was a television commercial for some long-forgotten microwaveable breakfast product that her mom still has saved on an old VSH tape stuck in a dusty box in the garage back home. She doesn’t remember much about the actual filming of the commercial itself, only that she was lead through a giant warehouse to a curtained-off corner that made up the small set with a kitchen counter and painted backdrop of appliances. The experience was surreal for her young mind, seeing such a domestic setting smack in the middle of a bustling crowd of people shouting and running with cords and lights. It was November and San Francisco was experiencing a severe cold front, her fingers cold where she held tight to her mother’s hand. She recalls that she brought her stuffed animal, Patches from 101 Dalmatians, and looked down at him while her mom spoke with the other adults as they poked and prodded at her hair and clothes, removing her warm jacket and telling her to change into a dress with little purple flowers.

She vaguely remembers the first time the commercial was shown on local television. Her mother sat on the couch, primed on the edge of the seat with the remote control in one hand, wavy brown hair still wet from a hasty shower and manicured finger primed to hit the record button at a moment’s notice. She looked to her father and older sister sitting next to her mother on the other side of the couch, her sister engrossed in a book propped on her knees and her father with his head lolling forward and jerking back as he tried not to fall asleep. She was playing with Patches again, twisting his little ears around in her small hands, when her mother made an excited noise and rushed forward frantically to press the button on the remote. The commercial lasted all of twenty seconds, but in her young mind it seemed to last forever as she watched her mother’s blue eyes fill with proud tears. She didn’t watch the television and watched her mother instead, and when people who saw her at the local supermarket commented on it and wanted to talk, she grabbed her mother’s hand and hid behind her legs.

Her mother played the VHS tape of the commercial a few times over the years, mostly on a whim whenever the extended family got together during the holidays. It was queued up along with old slideshows of family pictures, the presentations getting shorter and shorter as time went on and family couldn’t make the trip out to the West Coast for the holidays. Her parents divorced two years after the commercial’s filming, and her mother seemed to become less inclined to play any of the videos. When her mother met and married her new husband, the videos stopped all together. The tapes were boxed up and put in a cardboard stack in the garage next to old winter clothes. It stayed there until she was thirteen, when a conversation with a school friend prompted her to fish it out and dust it off.

“He’s the first boy you’ve ever kissed, right?”

Darcy’s friend nudged her shoulder and nodded across the cafeteria at a crowd of boys laughing in the corner. She followed her friend’s gaze and caught the eye of Bruce Banner, small and skinny with a mop of dark hair too large for his head that hung into his eyes. She blushed and turned back to her friend.

“Not really,” she said defensively. “I kissed a boy in a commercial when I was seven.”

Her friend stopped with her French fry halfway to her mouth, before fixing her with an incredulous look.

“Come on, Darcy. That doesn’t count.”

That night she went home and rummaged through the garage for a half an hour until she found the box with old family movies. Luckily they still had the old VHS tape player lying next to it, and she spent an inordinate amount of time hooking it up the television in the living room late that night after everyone else had gone to bed. The quality of the video was bad, static lines crisscrossing the screen and the sound dubbed a little off. She watched the younger version of herself, big blue eyes wide and brown hair sectioned into little pig tails, looking down at a plate of pastries with only one left. The little boy on the screen, blonde hair cut in a forties-style, gave the pouting little-Darcy the last pastry, and she watched as her face lit up with joy and she reached on tiptoes to kiss him on the lips.  

Thirteen year old Darcy watched the video of her seven year old self and didn’t remember any of it, despite the evidence in front of her telling her that it definitely happened. She touched her fingers to her lips, recalling the day before when she and Bruce had met behind the classroom building, nervous butterflies playing tennis in her stomach when he reached out and touched her hand. She looked at him, shorter than her by about an inch, and felt her heart skip a beat or twenty when he started to lean towards her. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, and when she felt his dry ones touch hers, her heart exploded. It was short and awkward, and after it was over Bruce pulled away and made a hasty retreat, leaving her standing with her back against the brick wall with her mind reeling and her heart soaring. Pressing her fingers against her lips, she imagined that she could still feel him there.

She looked at the video paused on the television before her, frame frozen on the image of a little girl kissing an embarrassed-looking boy.

The first time Darcy Lewis kissed a boy, she was seven years old. The first time she _really_ kissed a boy, she was thirteen.

As Darcy got older, the difference between pretend and reality became more distinct. She took a drama class when she got to high school and became addicted, reveling in the rush that she got from standing before an audience of her peers, feeling their energy buzz electric around her. It helped her soar high above them, watching disassociated as her body acted out scenes and spoke words that weren’t her own, cried and laughed with tears and joy that were written as words on faded pages and borrowed as queues from those around her. It was exciting, terrifying, and peaceful all at once, and she knew deep in her heart despite all the disapproving lectures and talk about how she ‘had such potential’ that _this_ was what she wanted to do with her life.

She graduated high school and went to college, majoring in Drama and taking classes in Screenwriting on the side. By day she wrote and studied and by night she worked as a hostess, trying to save as much money as she could to help support herself when the day inevitably came that she would make the trek to Los Angeles. She landed another commercial job at eighteen, then another two at nineteen. She was working a late shift one night when a customer told her that she should audition as an extra for a movie to get some experience on genuine movie sets. She did and was chosen, a small speaking role that paid her a hundred bucks, and she did a few more before she landed a larger role in a small-budget movie.  The director of that movie recommended she audition for another one, an artsy film produced by some big names looking for independent talent. She auditioned and got the part, a drunken ex-girlfriend of the lead actor played by the film’s director, the famous and award-winning Phillip Coulson. The movie was called Vermillion Dreams and was filmed in a rented-out mansion during the summer in Los Angeles, sweet breezes of mountain air drifting through large bay windows and carrying the sweet smell of morning coffee and honeysuckle across the set every morning.

It was on the set of Vermillion Dreams that Darcy met the people who would become major players throughout the rest of her life, both professionally and personally, but none of them would ever affect her in such a profound way as the man cast as the son of the main protagonist.  Nobody would ever make that line between pretend and reality so blurred, nobody would cause the tears and emotions her body displayed when acting to be drawn from so deep within, and nobody would be both the best thing that ever happened to her and ruin her life at the same time.  

The first time Darcy Lewis kisses Loki Odinson, she’s twenty two years old.

She’s never _really_ kissed him at all.


	2. Vermillion Dreams - Shooting, Day One

 

>   
> _“I don’t know how to kiss, or I would kiss you. Where do the noses go?”_   
> _\- For Whom the Bell Tolls (1943)_   
> 

Darcy looks at her face in the little compact mirror she carries in her purse and tries not to fret over the fact that she seems to be getting a pimple. A pimple. How many women in their twenties still get pimples?

A lot, apparently. Or so Jane tells her.

“Really Darcy, it’s not that bad. They can work that out in makeup.” Jane looks at her patiently across the small table at which they sit. They’re at a small café down the street from the set of _Vermillion Dreams_ , a local flavor called Good Vibes, sort of a combination between modern coffee shop and antique book store. Darcy’s never been here before, to the café or this side of Los Angeles, and the extent of her time spent in coffee shops is generally the Starbucks across from her apartment complex.

Jane sips on her cappuccino, delicately holding the small cup in a thin hand. “They do it all the time, so you don’t have to be so nervous,” she assures her.

Darcy makes a huffing noise and tilts the mirror higher up to catch the sun behind her. It’s around seven in the morning, the surrounding California neighborhood starting to make their way out of their million dollar mansions and head into town to buy organic groceries and free-trade coffee at the shops surrounding Good Vibes. Darcy’s from San Francisco, but she’s never seen so many Audis and Mercedes in her life.

She pokes with her finger at the small red spot on the side of her nose.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she fumes quietly. Really, how lucky is she that on the first day of the biggest job of her life, she has the beginnings of a pimple? She hasn’t had an acne problem since she was in high school, but the memories of those days are enough to make her hair curl. Red blotches on pale skin are definitely not a good combo.

Jane reaches across the table and gently places her hand on Darcy’s arm. She presses down firmly, making Darcy drop the mirror and grudgingly look into her eyes.

“Darcy,” she says in a tone that Darcy is quickly beginning to associate as mom-like. “Calm down.”

“I am calm,” Darcy says reflexively.

Jane quirks her eyebrow at her but doesn’t say anything, instead lifting her cup once more to her lips.

Jane is Darcy’s agent, a friend of the director who Darcy worked with on her first big “job”. Well, until now, anyway. _Vermillion Dreams_ is the biggest job she’s had to date, and the fact that it’s the pet project of famous film actor Phillip Coulson – Oscar winner, Cannes Film Fest winner, SAG award winner, the list is long and terrifying – makes it even more of a Big Deal.

It’s not just a big deal for her, but for everyone involved in the project. Jane is a junior agent at a large representation firm with offices around the globe. Darcy knows that she was just handed her as a client and she doesn’t begrudge the other woman if she isn’t too happy about it. She wouldn’t be if she were in her situation. But, they both know that to get anywhere in this business and in this town, you have to start somewhere.

Right now, that means sipping ten-dollar cappuccinos at seven in the morning before heading over to the set to start day one of shooting.

 Jane senses that Darcy’s mood has calmed and she asks her, “Did you bring a copy of the script with you?”

Darcy starts. “Of course!” She fumbles for her large handbag, slung over the back of the chair, and retrieves a worn and tattered copy of the _Vermillion Dreams_ script, pages dog-eared and highlighted with her handwritten notes. She sets it down on the table and soothes the front page lovingly. It’s a wonderful script, not so much for the content of the story (frankly, she thinks it sounds a little too soap opera-ish, what with the whole younger mistress and cheating spouses thing) but because it’s her _first._

With major acting jobs, like with sex, you always remember your first.

“You’ll be starting on the third scene this morning,” Jane prompts her, pulling out her Blackberry and simultaneously texting and peering at Darcy over her fingers. “The one where James confronts Melanie about showing up at his house when his wife is home.”

Darcy nods, then freezes. Her character is Melanie, the younger and emotionally-volatile mistress to the main character, played by Coulson.

“Oh…”she says slowly.

Jane pauses in her typing. Darcy sees her questioning look.

“It’s just,” she starts, flipping through the pages of her bookmarks to find the right page, “I didn’t expect to be starting on such an…important…scene right away.”

Or such an emotionally demanding one.

She tries not to panic. She’s acted in emotional scenes before, performed Shakespeare on stage at school, and gone the route of making herself think terrible thingss about dying puppies so she can cry. She can do this…even if she is playing it cold opposite a screen legend. Right?

Jane senses her nervousness. 

“He really is a nice man,” she says. “Everyone he’s ever worked with genuinely enjoyed the experience.” She smiles warmly at Darcy. “He’s especially fond of mentoring young actors.”

Hence the reason why they chose her for this role. Darcy sighs, placated a little by Jane’s reassuring words.

She flips through the script a bit, skimming her lines highlighted in different colors for different emotional tones. Pink for anger, blue for sadness, yellow for happiness…

“What about him?” she asks, pointing down at the script and taking a sip of her coffee. “James Jr.?”

Jane frowns and leans forward, typing something in on her phone once more. “Oh, him? Loki Laufeyson?” She shrugs, “he’s fairly new as well - in America, at least.” She sets down her phone and picks up her cup again. “His family is well known in Britain. They’re like a dynasty over there.” She chuckles, “like the Baldwins or Arquettes.”

Oh.

“His brother is actually a pretty famous action star,” Jane continues. “Thor Odinson.”

Darcy almost drops her cup.  

“Thor _Odinson_? They’re brothers?”

Holy crap. The Odinsons are legendary, the entire family notoriously regarded for their acting chops and accomplishments. Dad, Mom, and now apparently both sons are in the business. The mother, Frigga, single-handedly redefined Darcy’s perception of how female characters on stage should be played, a mixture of careful enunciation mixed with a whole lot of badass femininity. Thor, well, she’s pretty sure that she bought a few copies of GQ and Esquire magazines over the years just so she could look at his spreads. He is deliciously gorgeous, tall and blonde with sparking blue eyes. If the brother is going to be anything like that, Darcy can see herself becoming very distracted very quickly.

“I think he’s adopted. Or illegitimate, or something,” Jane says. “That’s why he changed his name when he started acting. Apparently it was quite the scandal.”

Loki Laufeyson. Interesting.

“Speaking of,” Jane looks up at something over Darcy’s shoulder.

Darcy spins around in her seat, perching her hands on the back of her chair. She looks around, up and down the street, now teeming with a milling herd of customers filing in and out of shops carrying large bags of purchased items. She squints her eyes and lifts her hand to block the sun.

“What?”

A sudden shadow falls across her light, darkness filling the space in front of her where before the street and crowds occupied her view. She blinks and looks up. And up. And up.

The man standing in front of her is tall. Really tall. And thin, with shoulders that appear surprisingly broad for someone so lithe. He’s wearing a dark pair of pants and an emerald green polo shirt, the top few buttons undone around his neck, pale skin peeking through. The first thing she sees of his face is his smile. It’s dazzling: brilliant and open, with a feel of honesty to it that throws Darcy off for a moment as she treks her blue eyes to his green ones.

“Excuse me,” he says politely. “I hate to interrupt. Are you Jane Foster?”

Darcy swivels back towards Jane so fast in her seat she almost gets whiplash. Jane smiles and stands up, brushing her hands down her thin figure and smoothing the lines of her dress. Moving around the table, she stands by Darcy’s side.

“I am,” Jane extends her hand. “You must be Loki.”

They shake hands, arms held about a foot away from Darcy’s head. She hasn’t moved, staring up at Jane’s face with her mouth open slack. She’s never had this happen to her before. Is it because he’s from a famous family? Is it because he’s shockingly good looking in a way that she wasn’t at all expecting given the rest of his family’s appearance? Why is she being such a spaz?

_He’s glamoured you,_ her mind whispers tauntingly.

_Not helping,_ she whispers back.

Jane meets her eyes and she widens her own, pleading for help.

“This is Darcy Lewis,” Jane takes pity on her. Darcy scrambles upright and out of the chair, knocking into it and almost spilling her coffee and her script on to the floor. She lunges forward to catch them before they fall, but Loki is quicker, and he grabs the tattered binding before it falls off the table.

She inwardly cringes with mortification when she sees him looking at her notes, her fingers itching to snatch the script off the table and out of view.

“Yes, Darcy Lewis,” he says and turns his bright eyes on her. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

It takes Darcy a moment to realize that he’s held out his hand for her to shake, and she gets her act together and takes his larger palm in hers.

She shakes awkwardly and clears her throat. “Hi,” she says.

He smiles. “Hi.”

She rubs her hand over her pants legs when they let go, brushing her palm against the fabric and forcing herself to take a deep breath. If she can’t control herself the first time she meets someone semi-famous, what’s she going to do when she meets Phillip Coulson? Faint on the spot? Definitely not her style.

“So, Miss Foster,” Loki continues, gesturing his hands towards their empty seats and pulling another chair from the adjoining table. “Tony said that you were going to be in town.” He waves away the waitress who approaches. “He suggested that I look you up.”

Jane chuckles, “Really?” She shakes her head. “He didn’t tell me about you at all.” She sips her coffee daintily. “That sounds like Tony.”

Loki smirks, green eyes sparkling. “It certainly does.”

Jane sees Darcy’s confused look and offers, “Tony is my boss. Well, he’s everyone’s boss, like the _boss_ boss.”

Darcy nods. Oh.

“Tony Stark?” she prompts, and Jane nods. Tony Stark is the owner, CEO, and resident god-like being of Stark Industries, the agency that Jane works for. Apparently he’s like the President – only certain people get to see him and before they do they have to go through his wife, Pepper, who holds a world championship in reducing self-important sycophants to groveling schoolgirls. Guess Loki is pretty well connected to be on a first-name basis with him, but that’s not really surprising considering his family.

She takes a moment to dreg the last remains of her coffee, subtly eyeing the man to her left out of the corner of her eye. Blonde and blue-eyed he is not. Rather, his hair is dark, cut slightly long and curling gently over his ears, and his green eyes are made even more vibrant by the color of his shirt – a conscious choice, she figures. In fact, the only thing he seems to have in common with the rest of his family is his height, his long legs bent outward as he reclines easily in the patio chair. Sprawling, that’s the word, like a prince.

“So Darcy,” he says, and she flicks her eyes quickly from his legs to his face, a smirk resting on the corner of his lips. “I’ve been told this is your first time.”

It’s a good thing there isn’t coffee left in her cup, but it still doesn’t stop her from almost choking and drowning at the same time.

“Um,” she clears her throat. “Yeah. Well, not my first acting job.” She sets the cup down carefully. “This is the first time I’ve been in a film like this.”

He nods and slightly arches his eyebrow. He reaches down and brushes his thigh.

“What do you think of the script?”

Darcy looks at the document lying next to her arm. She opens her mouth to say something generic, to say that she really likes it, but stops when she looks up and sees his expression. He’s gazing at her intently, long fingers steepled in front of his mouth.

“Actually,” she begins, looking at Jane. Jane is busy typing on her phone and doesn’t appear to be paying any attention to their conversation. She meets Loki’s eyes again. “I think it’s a little… obvious.”

He doesn’t say anything, but one eyebrow lifts higher. She swallows and soldiers on.

“I think the story is something that’s been done before. A lot.” She plants her feet firmly on the ground and straightens her spine, turning to face him more fully. “There doesn’t seem to be anything that’s remarkably _special_ about this story, as compared to all the other ones like it.”

Loki is silent for a moment, green eyes fixed on hers in thought. He tilts his head before lowering his hands to the table.

“Do you know the song ‘You Belong to Me’?”

Darcy furrows her brow, thrown by his odd question.

“The Jo Stafford song?”

Loki smiles. “I think the more popular version is the one performed by Dean Martin, though there have been others done as well. Patsy Cline, for example, and Bob Dylan.” He runs his hands along the table top. “Why is the Jo Stafford version the one that comes first to mind?”

Darcy searches her memory, imagining the song as it had last sounded playing through the speakers of her iPod. She listened to pieces of all those versions of the song when she looked for it in the online store, yet the Jo Stafford one is what she chose to buy.

“I like it best,” she answers honestly.

He nods. “Why?”

She knows the answer to his question before he’s even finished asking, the remembered tones of the sad melody flitting through her mind.

“Because of the performance. The way she sang the song was so emotional and heartfelt...”

She trials off, then frowns and feels like such an idiot. Of course the way a piece is performed makes all the difference in the quality of the final product. That’s why not everyone can do Shakespeare, and why performances of it that are done right leave a lasting impression. The content of the story isn’t as important as the delivery.

She shakes her head and laughs deprecatingly. “Touché.”

Loki laughs, a refreshing sound of genuine joy. He has the good grace not to question her further. Either that or he knows her mortification has now reached new levels and doesn’t want to rub it in.

He glances down at his wrist, watch glinting in the sunlight.

“I should go,” he says and starts to stand. “I must meet with our esteemed director before filming.” He drops his voice in mock-seriousness. “I’ve been summoned.”

Jane chooses this moment to jerk back to reality and she stands along with Darcy and offers Loki her hand in farewell. “Don’t mention the eye patch,” she says good-naturedly.

“Eye patch?” Darcy asks.

Loki chuckles but doesn’t answer, taking Darcy’s outstretched hand. She looks up at his face, dark hair cast in shadow by the sun behind him and green eyes regarding her shrewdly.

“Until next time, Miss Lewis.”

She swallows, “Uh, yeah. Sure thing.”

He smirks at her and takes his leave, tall figure weaving through cafe tables and crowds of people, emerald shirt sparkling in the sun. Darcy watches him until he’s gone from view, obscured by parked cars and manicured trees.

She turns back to the table, eyes landing on her script and the haphazard scrawl of words and colors that dominate the wrinkled pages. Jane is seated once more, eyes on her phone and another on the little menu in the center of the table. Darcy resumes her seat, blinking her eyes and shaking her head. She grabs the small placard from Jane’s hand.

“Do you think it’s too early to start drinking?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Jo Stafford version of the song "You Belong To Me" is on the wonderful movie Deep Blue Sea featuring our favorite Brit. It's actually a good movie, though I probably wasn't paying that close attention because, you know...
> 
> The idea is still in my head for something for this fic. Thank you to those who left reviews and kudos! Your feedback really helps me develop things! Thanks for reading.


	3. Vermillion Dreams – Shooting, Day 10, Scene 12, Take 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two notes:
> 
> So, I did a thing. Specifically, I made a *thing* where there isn’t a *thing*, and some people might get pissed at me for doing it...I think. But I took the plunge and I will reiterate again (in case it isn’t glaringly obvious) that this is AU. If you read it and don't know what I'm talking about, then we'll just say never mind! S'araight? S'araight. 
> 
> Also, I was looking back through my other fics/stories that I've written and realized that I've never actually written a kiss like this before. I mean, I've written kisses, but I've never actually had the emotions/introspections/feels to go along with it like there are here. So, if it makes no sense and/or there are any inconsistencies please let me know!

> _“Oh please, let me see her face when he kisses her.”_
> 
> -          _Stella Dallas (1937)_

There’s a niggling feeling at the back of Darcy’s mind, reflecting the harshness of light from the large bay window in front of which she sits. She’s stock-still, one artfully bared leg folded over the other and her arms resting on her balanced knee. Her fingers, acrylic nails dipped in red lacquer, are holding tight to the plastic prop pistol in her hand. She closes her eyes and feels the energy, a swirling mass of her nerves and apprehension, surrounding her as she tries to imagine the scene in her mind.

“Melanie?”

Darcy blinks...no, Melanie. _She_ blinks. Melanie twists in the chair, long dark hair falling forward over her left shoulder. Black-rimmed blue eyes skim the room’s white walls, stark with rays of encroaching sun, and roam over the distant film crew members holding cords and lights. They land on the man standing in the doorway, his tall black-clad silhouette backlit by spotlight. She twists her head back to the window.

“Melanie...what’s wrong?”

She feels as he comes up behind her, the barely perceptible vibrations of his Oxfords on the hardwood floors, and hears the swishing sounds his legs make where his pants brush together as he walks. He’s near her shoulder when he stops, a hulking figure in black out of the corner of her eye. She’s expecting the touch but flinches anyway when he puts his hand on her shoulder, alabaster skin bright against the dark burgundy of her terrycloth robe.

Beyond the window a large motorized cart with a camera moves upward and comes to rest directly in her line of vision, sunlight glinting in the black lens. The movement is distracting, as is the weight of Loki’s hand on her shoulder, but she consciously avoids looking at either and glances up to the late afternoon sky. She takes a deep breath and recalls in her mind the way this scene was described, how she envisioned it would look as if in photograph – a young man in a dark suit comforting a seductive young woman holding a gun.

“Why do you have a gun?”

He sounds concerned, just as it was written. Just like she imagined the person playing James Jr. would say the line immediately after placing a concerned hand on her shoulder. Loki says it perfectly, enunciation clear and concise, accented inflection in all the right places of six little words to somehow convey both genuine worry and a tinge of unease. It fits with his character, of all the scenes she hasn’t been privy to watching but are written in the script – the unsuspecting son being used as a pawn against his father by a jealous mistress. He says it exactly the way he’s supposed to, the way it was intended to be spoken.

Melanie tries to hold on to this moment, to place her free hand on his, to look up into his young handsome face and tell him that she knows that he’s in love with her and that she feels the same, with all of her conniving little heart, and whispers in his ear that the only way they will ever be together is if he kills his father as she presses the gun into his hands and reaches up to kiss him...

Her head moves of its own accord to her right, blue eyes landing first on the large hand resting on her shoulder, long white fingers curled and almost touching where her clavicle peeks through the robe’s folds. She tracks her gaze up his arm to his face, thin mouth drawn and dark brows twisted in concern. Her lips part to speak and her tongue darts out to lick her bottom lip, but no words come out. She swallows and tries again, only to find that the words are gone.

Darcy has the sudden and terrible feeling of being disassociated.

This is the moment when she knows she’s acting, when if she was on stage the audience’s presence would become glaringly obvious, the overhead lights too bright and the air too stifling. It’s horrible and embarrassing, and Darcy can see it in Loki’s eyes when he registers her shift from Melanie back to Darcy as they narrow, his expression morphing from affected concern to genuine exasperation.

“Cut!”

Loki withdraws his hand from her shoulder as if burned and mutters something under his breath.

“Darcy…” he starts, and sounds like he’s trying very hard not to shout. “You’re playing it wrong.”

Darcy feels her stomach drop and her fingers tighten in her lap. She looks down at her hands and clenches her jaw.

Loki pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers and sighs. “This scene is not meant to be about a nervous and vulnerable woman!” he hisses. “This requires finesse and subtlety, not glaring attempts at some theatrical performance. You were worried about making this a cliché, yet that is _exactly_ what you’re doing.”

He stalks back towards the door, accepting a copy of the script from an attendant as he weaves his way to the adjacent bedroom. Darcy watches him go and closes her eyes, a sinking feeling in her gut.

_Son of a bitch_ , she curses herself. What the hell is her problem today?

When she opens her eyes Phillip Coulson is standing next to her, friendly face wearing that near-constant expression of his that she interprets as amused indifference. It makes him hard to read, because you never can tell if he’s upset with you or not, but Darcy supposes that as long as he’s not yelling at her that it’s probably a good thing.

“Darcy,” he begins, kneeling down next to her perch and brushing his hands on his thighs. “You’re doing it again.”

Darcy snorts. Doing what? Being terrible at acting?

“Yeah, I know,” she shakes her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me...” She glances towards the door and pulls her robe tighter around her. “I’m sorry.”

Phillip follows her gaze and frowns. “Don’t mind him,” he offers, perceptive as always to what’s really bothering her. “He’s moody sometimes.”

Darcy scoffs. Moody? What an understatement.

“He gets so upset when I mess up,” she explains. “I mean, I understand _why_ he does – it’s not like I’m thrilled to screw up either – but we can’t all be classically trained at Cambridge or wherever the hell he’s from.”

“Asgard,” he corrects her. Phillip places his hand on her covered arm and lightly squeezes. “It’ll be fine. It may not seem like it, but he’s just as new at this as you are.” He smirks, “Don’t let the accent or fancy pedigree fool you.”  

That makes Darcy raise an eyebrow and she smiles in spite of herself. “So, you’re saying that fancy Brit-boy is only acting like a total douche-bag because he’s nervous?” Her question sounds slightly disbelieving, because hey, of the two of them in that scene Loki is everything that Darcy is not.

Phillip laughs lightly. “They said you were quick.”

He shakes his head and looks out the window at the rapidly fading Los Angeles sun, tones of orange starting to hedge with blue. It’s beautiful, Darcy thinks, and for a fleeting moment she wants to retrieve her phone from her purse and take a picture. As if she doesn’t live here and can’t take a picture at any time. But something about this moment, dark silhouettes of palm trees framed by the large window at sunset, is different. It’s wrapped in the emotions swimming around her head and tinged with this new experience, Phillips words ringing in her ears.

Darcy feels her heart lift. Fuck Loki. She can totally do this.   

“You know…,” she hedges, spurred on by Phillip’s friendly demeanor. “They said you were going to have an eye patch.”

Phillip looks startled (for him, anyway) and raises an eyebrow. He opens his mouth, the confusion obvious, but then closes it. “Oh,” he says, and then grins widely. “They meant _this_ eye patch. My tattoo.”

He rocks back on his heels and lifts his right arm, rolling the long sleeves up his forearm to reveal an inked design of…an eye patch. Huh.

“My husband,” he clarifies Darcy’s questioning look. “Nick. He lost his eye serving overseas.”

Oh. Darcy nods. “So, does he actually wear an eye patch?” That would be cool. Like a pirate.

“He does,” Phillip confirms, smiling. “He hates when I show off the tattoo.”

Darcy frowns. “I think it’s sweet,” she says. It’s more than sweet – it’s romantic as shit and her heart just did weird little flip things in her chest, but she won’t say that.

At that Phillip laughs the loudest she’s ever heard him. “And he would _hate_ that you said that.”

Still laughing to himself, Phillip uses his hands to leverage his knees and stand up, walking towards the door.

“We have some daylight left,” he announces to the room at large, pointing at the men rigging lights and moving microphone sound equipment closer to the window. “Let’s get this scene done today, okay everyone?”

He looks at Darcy at the last part and she smiles, nodding.

She turns back to the window, squinting slightly against the dipping sun. This is nothing new for her, she tells herself. This is exactly what she always wanted, to be on a movie set with a famous actor giving her pointers, to be sitting in a costume and living out the visions conjured in her mind from reading a story. How many people get to be the characters they read about? Not many, she knows, and even fewer get to take that character and make it their own.

This scene was written for Melanie, but Darcy Lewis is bringing it to life.

This time, Loki’s hand on her shoulder really doesn’t startle her. She looks right and up, déjà vu washing over her at his thin-lipped expression and affected concern, his inky black hair catching slightly blue in the sun. Darcy widens her eyes and opens her mouth, watching Loki’s bright green gaze as it flickers down to her tongue as it peeks out to wet her bottom lip.

 And Darcy does something she’s never done before. She puts _herself_ in the scene.

She thinks about how Loki made her feel like such a fool the first time they met, how he _still_ makes her feel like an idiot with his high and mighty attitude, and how tiresome the past few days have been around someone who is a charming gentleman one minute and a total asshole the next.

Melanie grasps James’s cool hand in her own, twisting her torso so that the deep vee of her robe falls slightly open, and lowers her lashes.

“James…” she purrs, sliding her hand up his wrist and shifting the plastic gun in her lap. She grips tight around his cool skin and holds to it as she pushes to her feet, the robe flowing around her legs. She looks up at his face, expressionless save for a furrowed brow. “It’s for you. I need you to do this for me.”

He makes a small sound and looks down at her other hand, the gun held by its handle against her belly.

Taking the hand held in hers, she presses the gun into his palm and gently closes his long fingers around the plastic posing as steel. She holds it tight to her stomach, pressing her chest forward and out and craning her neck to look up into his vibrant eyes. The small smile that tries to force its way across her lips crashes into apprehension when his expression becomes dark.    

_Use it_ , she tells herself. Let the fear and embarrassment show through. _Use it, use it, use it, use it…_

She does, and she can imagine how she must look, pale cheeks flushing red with heat. To the outside observer it all looks the same: embarrassment, anger, fear. Red cheeks are red cheeks, and she uses it to her advantage as she reaches her free hand up to cup his cheek.

Here’s the moment. The brief, fleeting encounter that she skimmed over so carelessly in the script the first twenty times she read it only to be revisited a dozen times since, the colors originally used to highlight the passage having changed so many times that the page now resembles a child’s drawing.  

James Jr. takes a deep breath and fixes his eyes on her, and she watches his lips move but doesn’t hear what they say. She’s too busy watching her thumb, inches from his mouth, and feeling the heat in her face increase tenfold when she thinks of what she’s about to do.

He stops talking and his mouth thins, the hand held in hers with the gun tightening and pulling her forward. It’s like being tethered, and a part of her that’s not completely overwhelmed by being in the moment is irrationally glad that he’s instigating this because she doesn’t think she’d be able to otherwise. The momentum makes her move towards him as acting gives way to instinct and she pushes up on her toes and meets his mouth with hers.

The kiss is quick, but deep, and she barely registers the feel of her lips on his as she closes her eyes and presses forward, dragging her thumb across his jaw and feeling his smooth skin. She’s disassociating again, because before she even knows it Phillip is calling another “Cut!” and the last thought she has before they break apart is that she imagined there would be more stubble.

Darcy releases Loki’s face from her hand, her face still burning from the previous flush and starting another wave of it anew as she rocks back down to her heels and looks up at his face. He’s smirking, a glint in his eyes, and he raises his eyebrow at her.

“Touché,” he says.

Darcy snorts and laughs, shaking her head and pulling her robe back up around her neck.

“Yeah, touché alright,” she mutters.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reviewed and gave kudos after last chapter! I really appreciate it!
> 
> I also want to throw it out there that because this is based on the idea of movies where they interact, if you think of a cool scene/movie for them to be in together, let me know! I am open to all sorts of ideas and I would be excited to see what people want.
> 
> Thanks again, and please keep the feedback coming!


	4. Vermillion Dreams – Shooting, Day 53, Scene 36, Take 1

> _"I hated her, so I couldn't get her out of my mind for a minute. She was in the air I breathed, the food I ate."_
> 
> _\- Gilda, 1946_

"I think I'm going to die."

Jane sighs. "Darcy, you are not going to die." Her tone is like a broken record, obliging the twitching mass of evening gown and hair standing before her without putting much effort into it.

"Really?" Darcy huffs. "Are you sure? Cause I'm pretty sure I feel like I'm going to."

She grabs the skirt of her dress with two fingers, pinching the black silk fabric between two acrylic nails like her pathetic first attempt at using chopsticks. Seriously, wearing these little fuckers is giving her more respect for New Jersey housewives and high-maintenance mafia girlfriends.

"How am I supposed to get anything _done_ with these things?" she mumbles.

At this Jane does look up from her phone. "What things?"

"What do you mean, 'what things'?" Is she alone in this?

Jane gives her a look that would rival a patient nun. "Well, first it was the hair, which 'isn't supposed to part that way', then it was the dress, which makes you 'one accident away from a nip-slip', and then it was the shoes, which had the same problem as the dress. You're shaking, you're flushed, and you're hyperventilating. Let me say this a way that you'll understand."

Jane comes around Darcy's front and grabs her by the shoulders, brown eyes staring right into hers.

"Calm the _fuck_ down."

Oddly enough, it work; like hearing your parents cuss for the first time, and Darcy finds she can take a deep breath without feeling like exploding. She breathes in and out and closes her eyes.

"Thanks mom," she mutters after a few seconds. Jane squeezes her shoulder before moving to her post in the back of the room. Now less panicked, Darcy lets her eyes drift to her reflection in the long mirror mounted on the back of the bedroom door. For the past month and a half this room of the large house has been her designated dressing area, where she's come between takes to decompress and read (and read and re-read) the script, tweaking her notes and definitely not obsessing over certain parts involving a certain tall, green eyed British dude. It's 12:35, and while the thought of doing what she's about to do would usually make her laugh ("just an afternoon quickie" - lol), now that she's actually standing here getting ready, she's terribly nervous.

Her first sex scene.

Kind of.

There is no nudity in the scene, no panting and moaning or rubbing or anything really that would imply active sex outside some semi-heavy, flirtatious groping. It's more of a 'fade to black' kind of thing, with the last shot before the camera pans away being her (Melanie) unzipping her dress and letting it fall, exposing her back and a generous portion of her upper behind. Piece of cake, right?

Well no, if her shaking hands are anything to go by.

This shouldn't be so hard. It's just another scene, just a pretend interaction between a cheating wife and her swindled husband. So what if she's never had an older gay man grope her in front of a room full of people she barely knows? She's a _professional_ , damn it. This is cake. It's just another scene, over today them bam! done. And tomorrow...well...she'll deal with that later.

The Darcy in the mirror actually seems like she almost believes it. She looks the part: slinky black dress with a revealing cut, long hair waved against gravity and killer red lips to match the nails. She looks down and smirks. The girls look ready, anyway. And isn't that really all that matters?

"Any words of advice?" Darcy asks, looking over her shoulder at Jane.

Jane shrugs, typing away.

"Don't cum in your pants."

\---

It's nearly two o'clock, and Phillip is overseeing the final touches on the set where they'll be shooting the scene, chatting with the prop designers and making subtle rearrangements of furniture. She watched him for a little bit at first, trying to figure out what he was thinking, but quickly gave up when it didn't make a damn lick of sense.

"Is this your first time?"

This time when Loki asks her that question, she's better prepared. No almost-choking again for her, bud.

She raises an eyebrow and sets down her script to look up at him. He's leaning against the wall by the door, long legs crossed at the ankles and his arms crossed across his chest. It's a typical Loki pose that she's seen him adopt of late, usually when he's snidely observing something that he considers amusing. Today he's not scheduled to be on set (she considered it a silver lining), yet here he is in all his splendor, dark clothes and regal smirk firmly in place.

"As always, Loki, your support is _most_ appreciated."

Her British inflection earns her a dark chuckle that has her cheeks heating in spite of herself.  
"Come now, Darcy. There's no need to be nervous."

She snorts a laugh. Ever since their kissing scene Loki has been full of these wonderful gems, offering her little pearls of advice with just a flavor of condescension. They made her dizzy at first, because she was never really sure if he meant it. Now she figures he's just teasing her.

"Who said I'm nervous?" She picks the script back up and flips through it. They both know it's a lie, because her artificial nails click a tattoo against the pages.

"Well for starters," Loki pushes himself off the wall. She flips a page and resolutely does not notice how he seems to glide towards her. "You're shaking."

"It's cold."

"In California? In August?"

"Uh, air conditioning. Hello?" She flips a page. "Not that new of an invention."

"Ah," he nods and thins his lips like it's a serious consideration. "Of course."

"Don't you have somewhere to be? Like, somewhere that's not here?"

He pulls a hurt face. "Are you implying that you don't enjoy my company? You wound me, Darcy."

"Not as much as Coulson will if he finds out you're messing around on his set before he goes on."

"I doubt he would mind. I'm simply here to observe. He prefers that we prepare ourselves as thoroughly as possible, after all." Loki sidles up next to her and her shoulders tense when she feels the mass of his body heat. He inclines his head and whispers in her ear. "Our scene is tomorrow."

"Don't remind me," she snaps. Seriously, don't. It's not like she's been obsessing over it at all; picturing just how exactly she's going to sit there and somehow, miraculously, not lose composure when Loki kisses her neck and nibbles her ear, when he brings that giant warm hand of his to her neck to push her hair aside, smooth skin slipping over her jaw -

He laughs, rich and loud like the first time they met. That sound of genuine mirth that she sometimes wonders is the only real thing about him.

"All set, Darcy?"

She jerks her head away from Loki to see Phillip standing before them, wardrobe of a crisp black suit firmly affixed and that small smile playing on his lips.

She nods, thankful for the interruption. "Yep, ready."

"And Loki?" Phillips turns his attention on him, "you're helping Darcy prepare?"

Loki opens his mouth to respond but is cut off by a sharp burst of laughter from Darcy as she edges past them. He frowns.

Phillip doesn't say anything, his face doesn't even change, yet somehow he manages to convey an air of disappointment, like a teacher waiting for a child to sweat out the confession they stole something. It lasts about a minute before Loki, flashing a brilliant and somewhat predatory smile, holds up his hands in mock defeat. He glances over Phillip's shoulder at Darcy standing in the middle of the set. She resists the urge to stick her tongue out at him, but can't quite (okay, won't) stop herself from flipping him off.

She turns away with his laughter burning in her ears.

Phillip enters the set a moment later and guides Darcy to the small couch situated in the center of what is meant to resemble an office study. Phillip's character, James, is reading a newspaper when Melanie, at this point in the story thinking that he suspects something between her and his son, attempts one last save by seducing him. The dialogue is some of Darcy's favorite throughout the whole script, full of double-meanings and subtle actions that don't quite reveal until the end that James knew what was going on the entire time. As attached as she is to Melanie, it's nice knowing that she'll get what's coming to her.

They exchange thoughts on the scene for a while, Phillip directing her with how he wants the actions to play out, before he stops her.

"Darcy?"

She pauses mid-adjustment of her dress, hand freezing like a criminal caught in the act.

"Are you ready?" he asks patiently.

Darcy immediately opens her mouth to say yes, but is restrained by the look on Phillip's face. Ugh, that stupid blank expression. It's like he and Jane are zen masters of making people spill their deepest and darkest secrets.

"I've..." she swallows. "I've never done this before."

"What, been groped? I find that hard to believe."

"Hey!" She sounds offended, but can't keep from smiling, which is what he wanted. She shakes her head, feeling the heat in her cheeks subside the longer she waits.

"You're a smooth bastard, Coulson. You know that, right?"

He grins. "So I've been told."

He checks the time and looks over the set once more. Once he's deemed it acceptable, he readies the camera operator and looks back at Darcy.

"Ready?"

She nods, and curls her fingers into her palms to stop them from reaching for her dress again.

"You are gay, right?" she asks before she can stop herself.

Phillip looks like he might want to laugh. "Last time I checked."

"Good," she exhales slowly. "Good."

\---

Melanie gasps as James hand brushes over her arm, nimble finger lifting the strap of the dress from her shoulder. The air is cold when her skin is bared, but she hardly feels the current on her back against the warm press on her breast. She closes her eyes, leaning forward into the touch. Her mind's eye doesn't see the man before her, reclining in the office chair as she presses forward. She runs her fingers through his hair, picturing the short strands as silken ebony. The feel of the tongue and warm breath against her skin makes her shiver.

"Melanie."

He doesn't sound right but that's okay. She can imagine the way it should sound, dark and deep with maybe a hint of a growl. Like that tiny noise that he made during their first kiss; that exhale caught in a moan.

"Melanie...I..."

Her fingers drift down his jaw. There's more stubble than she remembers.

"I know."

She brings her thumb to his lips, shivering at the feel of his tongue darting out to lick the pad.

"You and him."

Darcy's eyes burst open, shock flooding through her at the vividness of her imagination. She sees the decorated office wall before her, her hand balanced on the back of the plush office armchair where she's cornered Phillip, his legs enclosing hers and keeping her from moving away.

Fuck. She's broken character completely. At least this time it doesn't really matters because the camera isn't right in her face, and sex is sex, so as long as she keeps making noises and moving it will all look fine. Only now she's aware of everything: the lights, the cords, the fabric of her dress around her middle. But most importantly she's aware of Phillip's hands, reaching around her middle to push the dress further down her hips.

Against her will, she tenses.

Phillip senses it when she does but other than a minute, barely-there squeeze of his hand, he doesn't stop. His small touch of reassurance grounds her and she closes her eyes again.

She can't bring herself recall the fantasy from before but she doesn't have to. He ends the scene a second later.

"Cut." He grabs the bunched up fabric from Darcy's waist and helps her gather it up to her chest. He carefully disentangles his legs from hers and stands up, looking down at her with a warm smile.

"Very nice, Darcy."

She doesn't really hear his words because her head is spinning. She tried the daydreaming fantasy thing on a whim, thinking that her body would no doubt remember how revved it's been since her scene with Loki. Some arousal to make the necessary sounds and movements.

She didn't actually expect to get so fucking lost in it.

Coulson puts a hand on her shoulder.

"You okay?"

Blinking rapidly, Darcy forces herself to the present. Focus, Darcy.

"Yeah, totally." She shakes her head and grins at him. "You're pretty good at that."

Phillip huffs a small laugh.

"I'm serious," she says, feeling better and more like herself now that crew members are busting about and making noise. "Foreplay is a lost art, dude. Most guys like to stare but can't handle a pair of tits when they finally get their hands on one. It's too bad you're gay."

At that he does laugh, short and clipped, and it makes her smile even as it twists her gut.

He shakes his head. "Get off my set before I have Nick come and drag you off."

"Yessir!" The idea has her scurrying away, exchanging pleasantries with a few attendants as she maneuvers her way towards the door. On her way out she doesn't look back towards where she and Loki had been sitting, because she _knows_ he's still there. She can feel his stare, the weight of it burning into her skin like a brand. It would be so easy to look to him; to give him a sarcastic "told ya" because she did a good take, to guess whether he would take it in stride or ignore her completely.

But she can't, because if she were to look into his eyes right now he might see everything. How she feels so over her head by this whole experience, how every time she does something good she half-wonders if people are just taking pity, how she allowed him to get under her skin with no more than a kiss...a _fake_ kiss.

And she knows that come tomorrow, she's going to be completely, irrevocably screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed/bookmarked/kudoed this story. Seeing the heartfelt enthusiasm has really helped motivate me to keep going. I hope you enjoyed the update.
> 
> Happy New Year! Best wishes for all!

**Author's Note:**

> This is an introduction, just something that’s been rattling around in my brain for a while that wanted to get out. It’s emotional and angsty, and will take the form of a life-journey experience with each chapter touching upon a different movie/role in which Darcy and Loki interact. 
> 
> Let me know if anyone is interested and wants me to continue. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
